


Living By A Code

by LittlexWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlexWing/pseuds/LittlexWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“ I don’t have a family,” she ground out like she was chewing glass. “ And I’m old enough to carry ten grand in cash. If you don’t want it, fine. You don’t want to sell to me, then fuck you. But don’t talk to me like I’m fucking stupid, asshole! I don’t need no punkass hunter family to teach me a goddamn thing!”<br/>And then she slammed his door shut and presumably went off to flatten a small village.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feral Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr account. Inspired by roleplays, which in turn were inspired by strong feelings, which inspired more roleplays, you get the idea.  
> Bit of a rant coming, feel free to skip straight to the fiction below it.  
> To be honest, I've had these strong feelings about the relationship that could/should have been between Chris Argent and Braeden since Braeden first showed up. He was/is a federal firearms dealer, also a hunter. She's a mercenary with a favorite shotgun. There's no reason not to know each other or have spoken before or something. I thought maybe it'd finally happen after I.E.D., when Araya Calavera made mention to the girl they hired and Chris knew exactly who they were talking about. He said her name. When Araya hinted that maybe the girl was dead, he reacted (In as much as Chris Argent reacts to anything when he's in battle mode.) And then the showdown in Argent Arms International warehouse or office building or whatever that was. Same place, same time. Surely they'll at least speak to each other. Surely two of the biggest human badasses have some sass to kick around. But no, nothing. Not even a glance. I was distraught.  
> My strong feelings come in because it would have been an easy way to both give Chris more character development, and not necessarily give Braeden a complete backstory (I have my own headcanons and backstory for Braeden, which is what I go off of when I write her. If her characterization seems very different to you, that would be why) but at least it would tie her to another character. Give her some more credibility, add more to her character other than motorcycle, boots, shotgun, badass, scarred throat, Derek, Peter, fuck up shit, get money, etc. What I'm trying to say (and rambling to do it, please excuse) is that it would have made both characters more well-rounded to just touch on how they know each other. Not even a big long overarching, multi-episode thing, just a quick mention here or there to showcase their relationship.  
> And hell, it'd just be fun to watch them interact. Even fight together.  
> Anyway. This has gone on long enough. I made my point. This project is the product of all those strong feelings. Enjoy.

The first time Chris Argent ever met Braeden, the girl who would be gun-for-hire, was nothing special.

Not to him anyway.

He'd had an appointment with a client, just like the hundreds he had before and the hundreds he'd have after. Usually hunters. Sometimes legitimately law enforcement. Sometimes family, but those didn't have to pay. Except Kate. Little Sister tax is a bitch.

This appointment in particular was a little unusual. New client he'd never worked with before. Sounded young on the phone. Looked even younger in person. Like, really young. Like, maybe all of nineteen years old.

And extremely cranky when he refused to sell her anything, let alone incendiary ammunition.

“ Why the hell not? You're an arms dealer, right? That's what the fuck you do, you deal arms. I got the money if that's what you're worried about.”

“ I do deal arms,” he confirmed, while body-blocking her line of sight to the gun locker. “ Just not to small children. Whatever you're trying to deal with that requires firepower like that, you shouldn't be dealing with.”

Oh, she did not like that.

“ That is not your concern, Argent.”

Chris shrugged. “ Maybe not. But I'm making sure it's not your concern either. How old are you, eighteen? Nineteen? You just pass your family's hunter test? In a hurry to prove you can kill the biggest thing with the biggest gun?”

She just seemed to get more and more pissed off the more he said. All right, he was sort of goading her, but he'd seen this type before. She'd get mad. She'd storm off. She'd go get drunk probably, sleep it off and live to complain another day. That was his main concern. Not handing a kid a death sentence in the shape of a gun and too much pride.

“ I don't have a family,” she ground out like she was chewing glass. “ And I'm old enough to carry ten grand in cash. If you don't want it, fine. You don't want to sell to me, then fuck you. But don't talk to me like I'm fucking stupid, asshole! I don't need no punkass hunter family to teach me a goddamn thing!”

And then she slammed his door shut and presumably went off to flatten a small village.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

That same night he's awakened by his sister repeatedly calling his phone. Then he's awakened by his sister repeatedly calling his wife's phone after he turned his own off. Victoria won't order him to go help his sister, Kate can take care of herself. But the order comes down from their father. Someone's tripped the silent alarm in their warehouse and the Argent siblings are to take some men and go deal with it. It could be a thief. It could be a small animal. It could be supernatural sabotage.

“ Isn't this exciting?” Kate nudges him for the fourth time since they met up outside the building. If there's a fifth time he might have to shoot her.

“ Of course,” he couldn't possibly pour more sarcasm into his voice. “ I love getting up in the middle of the night to chase a cat out of our warehouse because Dad wants us to 'defend our territory'.”

Kate scoffs at him. “ What makes you think it's a cat?”

“ What makes you think it's not? It's cold outside. Somebody probably left a door or window cracked and it came in to stay warm. That's what they do.”

“ I bet you $300 it's not a cat.”

This time Chris is the one who scoffs. “ Don't make me take your money.”

“ $500.”

“ Over a cat? This is why you never have any cash, because you make poor life decisions.”

“ $700, 'Topher.”

It's not the money. He cleans his guns with $100 bills. It's the throwback to her childhood nickname for him that does it. That can't go unchallenged. You give Kate an inch and she'll take three thousand miles.

“ Fine. You're not getting it back if you start crying either.”

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

So the Argents sweep. Checking every corner and room. So far, they find nothing. Nothing missing, nothing broken. Chris did find a skylight cracked open for airflow. Big enough for a small animal to come through. Kate becomes severely annoyed when he calls her over.

“ I'll take a check if you don't have the cash on you.”

“ Shut up, asshole.”

The Argent siblings continue to bicker, seemingly unaware that they were under surveillance themselves.

They split up once again, Chris going off to the left while Kate went to the right; dragging her feet and grumbling about overdrafts.

They were both right in their own way. The intruder isn't a person, but a thief. Not a cat, but cat burglar. Small and slender enough to fit places most people couldn't. This intruder in particular happened to have a custom built sawed off shotgun strapped to their back. Stolen right from the shooting range out behind the warehouse.

As entertaining as it is to watch the Argents in-fighting, it's not doing them any favors to linger with their prize when the skylight they came in with isn't very far away. There isn't anything to stop them from getting to it and getting on with their life.

At least, until metal meets with the back of their masked head. The unmistakable feeling of a gun.

“ If I were you, I'd put my hands up very slowly.”

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

“ Well that's certainly bigger than a cat.”

“ Not now, Kate.”

The intruder marches in front of Chris with both hands on their head. Didn't look like much to Kate. Shorter than Chris. Shorter than her. Black mask. Sleek bodysuit. Obviously female. Stolen shotgun on their back. Flat combat style boots. It's a cute little Halloween costume. “ Who're you supposed to be sweetheart? Batwoman?”

The thief gives her no response.

Kate makes a noise of amusement. Then promptly backhands her.

“ Kate!”

Chris didn't like that. She knew he wouldn't. Their men think it's pretty funny, even if her brother does silence them with a glare. But it's not like this is a real person. It's a thief. Someone that stole from—is still stealing from them. “ Just making sure she was human. How 'bout it, sweetheart? You gonna get all growly on us?”

The thief only turned her head with the force of her blow. Otherwise, she remained silent. No growling. No eye flashing. No claw extending. No reaction to the wolfsbane scent she's wearing. All right, so technically the thief is human, but not an actual person still.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

He catches himself about to apologize to this thief for Kate's actions.

Instead, he quietly, but firmly orders her to put her hands behind her back. Since this is a human, she's subject to human law. Breaking and entering. Grand larceny. The police will deal with her. As such, he intends to bind her hands with a zip-tie so he doesn't have to explain his ownership of handcuffs.

The thief complies and really, all this compliance should have been a dead giveaway.

One second, he has her wrists in his hand and a zip-tie in the other hand. The next, there's the blur of movement, weight crashing into his front with force enough to roll him over. By the time he's oriented again, he's the one zip-tied to a work table. Just in time to see the thief's foot kick his .45 out of his thigh holster.

And then his blood runs cold as Kate's already begun her charge to intervene, but she isn't going to be fast enough to dodge the bullet that's aimed at her head. He doesn't even have time to yell at her before the gun goes off.

He's about to watch his sister be murdered.

He's about to be covered in her blood and brain matter.

And then he's going to vomit and promptly lose the rest of his shit.

The blood spray never comes. But there is screaming. Kate's screaming. Not because she's been shot. She's been shot at. The thief fired right next to his sister's ear. She's been deafened.

The shock and subsequent relief makes everything seem like it's happening in slow motion. The men of their unit, no longer stunned into inactivity try to swarm the thief. The thief with a loaded gun still in her hand. They have their own weapons, their own guns, but they might as well be unarmed.

They've made a mistake.

They've underestimated this thief. Just because she wasn't a supernatural creature, just because she was smaller than they were, quiet and compliant—until Kate struck her at least. They weren't going to harm her. But she didn't know that. She had no way of knowing that he, Kate, and their men weren't going to kill her. Not with the way they were all armed. The thief had the one shotgun to her back. His shotgun. The one he was building and testing for himself. They had about seven altogether. Not to mention the handguns and knives between them all.

It was stupid of him to assume she'd simply think she was going to be arrested.

All he can do is watch as she dispatches their unit. Dispatch, not kill. She knows exactly what she's doing. She's fast. She's precise. She's trained. Blocking, countering, reversing, dodging, taking two—three men at a time. She's fighting like a Marine. USMC MA. He recognizes the movements. And so the hell should his men, he's taught them the same way to fight, but this thief is making them look foolish.

Is this another hunter?

What the hell is happening here?

Kate's moaning jars him out of his confusion. The big brother in him tells her to stay down while the soldier in him manages to get to one of his hidden knives to cut the tie loose. The thief left him no wiggle room whatsoever. She did not intend for him to have a way to get free.

Of course Kate doesn't listen.

He gets his second heart attack of the night when the gun is again pointed at his sister's head, and again a bullet whizzes past it. Now she has a matching set of bloodied ears. She's deafened on both sides.

Now the last one standing, the thief ejects what's left of magazine, tosses his gun somewhere off to the side. She sees him cut himself loose and then she makes a run for it.

His first instinct should be to chase her down. But it's to check on Kate. To make sure what's wrong with her is the only thing that's wrong with her.

“ I'm fine, go!” She shouts because she can't hear herself. But it's no less an order.

So he goes.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

The thief isn't just fast in a fight. She's fast on foot too. She has a head start, and Chris is no slouch either. But he knows he won't catch her with the door wide open. She'll reach it before he does. If she gets outside, she'll have ten different directions to go in. He can't allow that.

He's not really one for knives except for utility. He can't take the chance of a bullet ricocheting now though. In this case, he has to make an exception and throw high enough and hard enough to hit the emergency switch next to the warehouse door. It starts to close, but naturally, it doesn't slam shut like he needs it to. It goes slow for the sake of safety or some other such bullshit.

He has to find another way to slow her down. The second throwing knife—really, he only carries two for throwing, the rest have other uses—grazes her arm. The thief staggers, nearly falls, but recovers. It buys him the time the door needs to slam shut right in front of her.

Once she stops, he catches up to her in no time. Gun drawn on her person. “ I don't want to hurt you.”

It sounds stupid even to his own ears. But despite all the shooting and the attacking and deafening of his sister and what not, he doesn't want to shoot her. He assumes she doesn't want to be shot. He also doesn't want to be shot. He hasn't forgotten that shotgun she has on her back. It's mid-modification, but it still fires. He's seen what it does to targets on the range. He has no desire to share their fate.

The thief continues to stand there with her back to the door; watching him, not the gun in his hand. He hasn't decided yet whether or not that makes her stupid or she thinks he is.

As long as she's not moving, he can waste time talking to her. Kate's likely called for reinforcements by now. He hopes in the form of the police. “ We were never going to hurt you.”

The thief snorts.

He amends himself. “ Kate is a little rough around the edges. But firing on her twice puts you ahead of a simple backhand. By all accounts I should shoot you.” She deafened his sister. “ But I won't because you didn't shoot anyone. I understand you're just trying to get away. You have to understand that I can't let you do that.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. The thief takes a step away from the wall and puts her hands up. Curled into fists. One high, one low. She's put herself in a stance, ah, hell.

He could shoot her and end this quickly.

Not, like, in the head or anything, Jesus. In the knee or shoulder or something less lethal.

He could shoot to deafen her like she's done his sister. She's too close to the metal door though. There's no chance; it will ricochet and he can't control where that bullet goes.

There's also the fact of that shotgun still on her back. She hasn't reached for it once. Even now, when he's had a gun on her. When people have come at her with weapons. She only took one of his and fought with her hands, not with the damaging weapon on her back. None of the damage she's done to his men, or his sister is permanent. And now, instead of drawing the shotgun, she's put her hands up to fight him empty-handed.

Seriously. What kind of thief is this?

He holds her gaze for a few seconds. Her's is unwavering. All aggression and challenge. She's a cornered animal. Sooner or later she'll come after him whether he acts or not.

His own sense of honor has him putting his gun away. Tucking it against his back and into his waistband. If they really have to do this, fine. At least he can keep her occupied until the police get her to take her off his hands.

No sooner than he'd moved into his own stance, she rushed him. Still fast. Still trained. Still precise. But so was he. He knows USMC MA well. Well enough to keep up with her. Keep her at bay. Break out of her attempts at holds, step out of her trips, reverse her counters and push her away. Blow for blow, she hits hard for someone her size. He's fairly impressed. Her technique isn't rough at all. However she learned to do this, she learned well. And she's been doing it long enough to have smooth execution. He started off pulling his punches, but he can't pull them for long or she'll over take him.

The third time he knocks her down, she swears. Loud and furious. She sounds young. Younger than Kate and himself. A hunter that didn't make it in the military maybe? Didn't make it in their own family? Sometimes that happened. Sometimes the heir apparent isn't so apparent and they lose their way.

“ Why are you doing this?” He won't stay so close to ask his question. But he does want to know.

The thief gives him nothing but a glare as she pants on the concrete floor. He knows she hasn't given up. She's just resting. Trying to figure out how she's going to get around him. How she can take him down.

So he pries further. “ Does this have anything to do with your family?”

The thief is not silent this time. This time she lets out a noise of pure rage and when she rushes him again, his blocking does nothing. That little body of her's gathered enough power to tackle his six foot four frame into the ground. Pain lights up his shoulder. He's landed on it badly. He'll have to ice it all day tomorrow.

And probably a few other places with the beating he's suddenly taking. Now she isn't so precise. She isn't so focused, or so trained. She's just angry. Punching him everywhere she can punch him, as hard as she can possibly punch him. Which is, again, harder than you might think someone of her size could hit. It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to stop her hands. He has to box her ears to get her off after the fact. That was for deafening his sister.

When he stands upright, his body lets him know just how much damage has been done and what he's going to pay for in the morning. Nothing's broken. Everything just hurts like a son of a bitch. Nothing he's not used to. Good thing too. The thief has recovered, or maybe she's just still pissed. Eyeing him in nothing but contempt, her body goes into a different stance. This one is not USMC MA. This one is some variation of kung fu, he recognizes the way she stands. The placement of her hands, legs, body. He also recognizes the kind of trouble he's about to be in. In the words of his rather colorful sister, she is not fucking around anymore.

The thief goes on to prove him right by coming after him head-on.

Now he's the one on the defensive.

He's the one having to back up.

She keeps coming forward, getting inside his range. Using his height against him.

He can't hit her if he can't swing his arms. She keeps killing his punches before he makes them. Slamming into his wrists and elbows, constantly backing him up so he can't kick, pushing his leg away, or countering him when he can. That's to say nothing of the blows she's actually landing on him. On one swing, she actually bends nearly all the way backwards to avoid his hand. When she comes back up, her palm slams into the center of his chest hard enough to leave him winded. His abdomen will be fifty shades of black and blue tomorrow morning.

It's that (and the nearly completed attempt to take him down with a judo throw) that leads him to a decision. He was just going to keep her busy until the police came (seriously, how long does it fucking take? No wonder so many damn people die in Beacon Hills of everything ever. Maybe they'll rob a bank on the way home since it'll take 30 minutes for the cops to show up, God bless. . . ) but he's taking way too much of a beating here. No more pulling his punches, he has to knock her out.

This change puts them on a little more even ground. She's still fast. She's still strong. She's still. . . really strong, actually. And thoroughly pissed. Not as reckless as before. She still isn't trying to kill him. That would solve all her problems. She seems to have come to the same conclusion he has: she'll have to knock him unconscious to get him out of the way.

That or break enough bones that he stops fighting. She's definitely still trying to do that.

He can finally hear the sound of voices in the back of the warehouse. Voices and fast footsteps. The thief hears it too. Her surprise allows him to get a right cross in where he couldn't cross before. It still doesn't connect; she's too good to be so damn careless. But she doesn't block it, just ducks. When she does, his hand catches that mask of her's.

The face under it leads to his surprise.

“ You.”

That mouthy teenager from this afternoon. That bossy little upstart that demanded he sell to her and threw a tantrum when he refused. She was responsible for all of this?

He really should know better. He's been surprised by much worse for much less. But his mind is struggling to reconcile the brat from this afternoon with La Femme Nikita in front of him now. (He likes to think he doesn't have an ego, he has confidence. But even he is tempted to. . . embellish over explaining this to Victoria. He's not exactly in a hurry to relay the story of how a teenager beat the shit out of him in his own family warehouse. . . )

He pays for his shock—not in pain—but in giving her an opening. The thief—the girl—whoever the hell she is—sees his back-up coming and runs at him. He thinks he's about to be attacked head on, so he prepares himself to block and counter.

She got him again.

She wasn't running at him to attack.

She was running at him to gain speed. Use his height to her advantage once again. He felt her foot on his knee, then his shoulder, then the force she used to push off. By the time he turned, tried to catch her, tried to do something, she's gone. Scurrying up shelving to get to a side window. Too small for a man of any size. But a cat—a body type like her's could slink through. And in fact, it did.

All he can do is watch her go. By the time he tried to climb after her, or run around outside, she could be long gone in any direction. She's not stupid and she's certainly not slow.

The last thing she does before slipping off to the roof—with his shotgun—is make this noise. A high pitched, trilling noise. Just like a cat that got the canary.

Next time he sees her, he'll just shoot her.


	2. Mongoose

The second time he meets Braeden, the girl who would be gun-for-hire, he isn't actually aware that it is her until much later. When he's coherent and not poisoned. And even then, he won't be positive for another few years.

He gets poisoned chasing behind a reptilian. . . something in a museum. It has scales, it has a tail, it has a hood, it's venomous, but it has arms and legs. There's a word for it, there's a name for it, he just can't remember because the damn thing got in close to him and bit him. He'd fired off a round into the side of its head to get it away from him. And he did wound it. He also made it extremely pissed.

Pissed enough to knock over Chinese stone soldiers onto him. His reflexes were fast enough to keep him from being crushed, but the way they landed left him pinned with use of only one arm. The bitten one, of course, it's the bitten one. Naturally, the mess the thing made of the stone (rubble now, really, and he still felt bad about that destruction of ancient history) is blocking off his access to Kate and the ten some odd men they brought with them.

Outstanding.

Hissing makes him look up. Venom dripping from the creature's fangs pools onto the floor near him. He has to wait until it's close enough, looking to strike him while he's down, and he fires another shot at it. This time, its reflexes are fast enough to make the bullet only graze it. That, or his aim is getting worse. The poison is getting worse. Either way, it got the message; that he's not defenseless and he will not be an easy kill.

Unfortunately, there's only four bullets left in his current cartridge. He can't move to reload it. These bullets have to last until Kate finds him. Which needs to be real soon with the way the venomous thing is trying to slink up to him again.

Then something solid lands directly on top of the creature's head from above. Heavy enough to compress it to the floor with its weight and force. The snake creature rears with something that's half roar, half hiss and slings the weight off.

The weight—actually vaguely humanoid shaped—twists around to land on its feet. When it lands in front of Chris, he can tell it is definitely humanoid shaped. The head's off though. There's not much light in the room, and he's at a bad angle, but it looks like the person (second creature?) in front of him has fangs at the bottom of its head and horns at the top.

That's what he needs. Another were-something fighting the snake creature to see which one of them is going to kill him. There is such a thing as too much attention.

The horned creature looks back at him, and he catches a flash of silver in the light. Or at least, he thinks he does. It's highly possible that he's actually unconscious under all these stone soldiers and hallucinating this whole thing. Every so often, he shifts himself to intentionally cause pain. Pain keeps him sharp, grounded, conscious. If the horned thing comes at him, it'll get a bullet in the face too.

But it doesn't come at him. It intentionally puts itself in front of him like it means to defend him from the snake creature. Which is not as flattering as you might think. It doesn't mean Horns over there is his friend. It just means it doesn't want Snake Venom to get to him first.

Horns kicks a piece of stone at the Snake Venom's head, which as one might expect, only angers it further. It darts forward in a strike attempt at Horns. But the horned creature was ready. It was able to jump back out of the way, then come right back and slug the snake creature right in the nose. Again, it makes that roar-hiss noise. Why Horns doesn't bother actually using its fangs or actual horns, he doesn't know. Once Snake Venom recovers though, it's all over the other one. Striking, false striking, trying to hit it with its tail. If it was pissed before, it's furious now.

While those two battle it out, Chris tries his hand at getting himself loose. He's able to free his other arm, but has discovered his leg is what's really holding him in place. There's too much weight on it for him to move himself. Trying to pull it out is too painful, his body just won't do it.

All isn't lost though. He can somewhat hear the sound of automatic gunfire on the other side of the stone mountain he's under. Kate's getting close. Calling his name as she runs. “ Here!”

It's a risky decision, firing off three shots in rapid succession, but it's a sacrifice he makes. Everyone who heard those shots will recognize them as a distress signal.

Including Snake Venom evidently, as he has to jerk himself back under the very stone soldier pinning him to the ground to keep from catching a tail to the face. It must know it's in danger of losing its prey.

Its second attempt ends up aborted though, when Horns rams into its side with all its weight. He'd thought that one dead. When it turns its head to look at him again, again, he catches a flash of silver. This time with pain keeping him grounded in reality, he knows it isn't a hallucination. Horns doesn't use its fangs or actual horns because they're not real. The silver he keeps seeing is actual silver. The horns and fangs are a mask. He's seen the type before. Worn over the face to give the impression that the wearer was not human in low light. Not practical in this time, but very effective in the Middle Ages where the only dependable light was fire.

Which means Horns is probably human.

Very agile for a human too. The way it continues dancing out of the way and jumping back from Snake Venom's strikes like a mongoose. But still very much human. No claws, no growling, no supernatural anything. Just punches and kicks of its own. It puts him mind of Brazilian Capoeira, only sloppy and not as smooth as one who practices the style often. The wild movements are working though, alternatively backing Snake Venom up and dodging the claws and strikes.

Which also means Horns likely isn't trying to kill him. They could have tried to get his gun or crush him under more stone, or any number of things instead of engaging the snake creature. So he doesn't stop himself from delivering a warning of an attack he sees that Horns doesn't. “ Tail!”

Immediately, the masked person hops into the air; avoiding what would have been a sweep. One of their legs catches Snake Venom right in the nose again. Hard enough to knock it down this time.

Chris doesn't let himself think its unconscious yet. It doesn't matter though, because he can see the flashlights headed towards him down the hall. The sound of Kate and their unit behind her. Thankfully, his sister knew better than to try and get through the stone obstructing the way he came in and simply went the long way around.

The sound of their approach has the unfortunate side effect of distracting Horns. Who really couldn't afford something like that with Snake Venom still alive and still very much conscious. So conscious it does manage to him them with its tail this time. As soon as Horns is on the ground, Snake Venom is on top of them. Only the mask protects their face from a close up strike, the fangs of the snake creature glancing off one of the silver horns. This isn't a fight Horns will win. Fast reflexes will only help if you can move in the first place. And Snake Venom has them outclassed with all its reptilian muscle trying to hold them down.

Chris doesn't even think about it. His last bullet blinds Snake Venom fully as it takes out the other eye. The creature thrashes around and rears and hisses and spits and throws a huge fit. Horns darts away from it, lest they end up whacked by a tail again, or clawed or something equally painful.

Then there's the unmistakable sound of a cartridge being loaded into a M-11 submachine gun.

“ DOWN!”

If Horns didn't hear the gun being loaded, they heard his shout. They scramble immediately. But not out of the room. Not out of the way of gunfire. Back over to him, to cover the part of his body that isn't pinned by stone with their own.

Kate isn't stupid enough to fire so blindly without knowing where he is. She at least goes in a sweep until she hits the snake creature. She's just pissed and out to destroy it for trying to kill him. Admirable, understandable, even a little bit flattering. But overall, it's extremely overkill as there are still plenty of things in this room alone that could fall over and kill any one of them.

In her defense, Snake Venom is finally dead though.

And she probably thought Horns was something else about to eat him, so it was natural for her to fire at them next.

“ KATE!”

The bullet was a headshot, but again the mask saves them. Unfortunately, that's all it's ever going to do. That last bit of abuse is all the silver could take. A piece of it hits the ground next to his head and his once-horned savior scrambles out of the way of more gunfire. The way it scales the mountain of stone and squeezes through some small opening reminds him of something, but his poison-addled mind doesn't know what.

Whatever. It doesn't matter. What matters is his trigger happy sister and the men of their unit removing the stone trapping his leg. But without doing anymore damage to anything else. It's still a museum, dammit.


	3. Stray

The third time he meets Braeden, the girl who would be gun-for-hire is. . .well, there really isn't a word for it.

The circumstances are just ridiculous. He's never been in a situation like that again in his life and honestly, he'd rather he never experienced it in the first place. But in the same vein, he's glad he was there.

It's an arms deal with some Russian clients. Not his clients, some of his father's clients. So naturally, when he gets to their agreed meeting place—the front of their organization, a restaurant—it looks shady. It feels shady. And he makes sure he and his men are armed before they go in.

It's nothing he isn't used to. The client is arrogant. Older than he, but certainly not wiser. He gets the feeling this man doesn't belong in power, yet desperately wants to. How he got to be in charge of acquiring arms, he doesn't know. He won't ask. The man talks enough as it is. Big shot type. Trying to impress him by offering him vodka and caviar. He doesn't want any of it. He wants to be done with this so he can get home in time to eat the dinner his wife made and read his daughter a bedtime story.

So he'd appreciate it if the guy would stop wasting his time. “ Are you serious, Matvei?”

“ What is problem, Argent?”

“ The problem is I can see from here that you're short seven grand.”

Matvei looks nervous for a moment, then thinks he covers it with this smug look. “ Ahh. We are low on cash—but we are prepared to cover the difference, yes?”

He better be. “ That depends on what you're trying to cover the difference with.”

Matvei snaps his fingers and some of his men are spurred to action. Chris tries very hard not to roll his eyes at the rather juvenile display of power.

What the men retrieve from the next room is no mocking matter however. It's a female, young, judging by height and size. Long, curly brunette hair. Hands bound in front of her. Scowl on her bruised, but aesthetically pleasing face.

A bruised, aesthetically pleasing face and scowl he very much recognizes.

The teenager trying to buy incendiary ammunition.

The “cat” from their family warehouse.

Now in the hands of Russian mobsters.

Matvei has been speaking to him, but Chris has no intention of listening to whatever it is. He gets it. He understands that the female is being offered to him in place of seven grand. Now, he's not accustomed to acting on impulse. That's his sister's forte. But this one, rare instance, he is sorely tempted. He isn't sure which thing infuriates him more. The fact that this is a practice they naturally engage in to solve their money problems, or that they seem to think that they can use this practice on him.

She's not exactly thrilled to see him either. She deflates somewhat and tries to pull away from the men holding her in place. They jerk her back. and pay for it when she drives one of her elbows into them. There's much swearing in Russian, and loud, obnoxious laughter from Matvei.

“ This one, very defiant. But you are hardy man, yes? You will be pleased.”

He will take about three showers from that statement alone. “ Where did you get her?”

The Russian seems to take his question as genuine interest. “ This one, she steals from me. Stupid though. She stays in the hotel I own. We take her from there. She is American, like you. Very loud. She did lot of damage to some of my men. Seven grand is what she costs me. Seven grand is what you need, yes? Is fair trade.”

It takes everything he has not to show his open disgust. Instead, Chris schools his face into a cool mask and beckons the girl's handlers. They shove her forward, trip her on purpose so she lands hard on her side in front of him.

Chris kneels to take her by her bound hands. He's also low enough to speak to her without being over heard. “ If I tell you I'm not going to hurt you this time, will you believe me?”

She doesn't look any less pissed. But she does relax in his hold.

When he hauls her up by the arm, she hisses. More bruises. More damage. More reasons to put Matvei's head through that sententious wooden desk of his.

First thing's first.

“ Take her outside,” he passes the young woman off to one of his men. “ Put her in my car. Don't let her out of your sight. And don't let her touch anything.”

Rescuing doesn't mean trusting.

She's in this situation to begin with because she can't keep her hands to herself.

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When Chris emerges from the back of the restaurant, he's in the process of wiping blood off of his hands with a bandanna that gets stuffed back into his pocket. The girl is exactly where he ordered his man to leave her. In the front seat of his car, hands still bound, looking just as pissed off as she was inside.

From the distance between the two of them, and the way his man is favoring the left side of his face, he 'd venture a guess that he got too close to her and/or said something he shouldn't have.

Chris dismisses him with a wave of his hand and approaches the passenger's side. “ Stealing from other hunters wasn't dangerous enough for you?”

“ Oh fuck off, Argent. I didn't need your help.”

“ So I saw. You were doing very well for yourself. About to be sold off to absolve Bratva debts. All according to plan, right?”

She doesn't have an answer for that. Just a noise of frustration.

Rather than continue to beat her up over it, Chris went a different route while moving over to the driver's side. “ Where's my shotgun?”

“ I don't know where your shotgun is,” she won't even look at him when she talks. She's too busy glaring at the dashboard. “ Mine is still in my hotel room.”

“ The one Matvei owned?”

“ Shut up. If I'd known he owned the place I obviously wouldn't have picked to stay there!”

In the street light, he can see yet another bruise blossoming on her jaw. “ Did you get that causing them seven thousand dollars worth of damage?”

The young woman scoffs. “ He's got his head up his ass. I told them to fuck off, they didn't listen. I made them listen.”

Chris remembers what it's like to be on the other end of her fist. He's sure she did. “ Well, he's got his head in his desk now, so he's no threat to you anymore.”

That gets her attention. “ Did you kill him?”

“ I don't kill humans unless I have to. Matvei's stupid, but he's not as dangerous as he thinks he is.”

For once, she looks less pissed off. It's almost strange to see her face without the scowl on it. “ What about your gun deal?”

“ There is no deal,” he corrects while gesturing to the back of the vehicle where cases upon cases of weapons remain secure. “ He couldn't afford it.”

As a matter of fact, Matvei can't afford anything now. Not only did Chris take his weapons back, but he also took the money. Gerard will be a little less pissed when he sees his son didn't come back completely empty handed. That's not why he did it though. He couldn't in good conscious leave Matvei with the money he made off other people. Selling illegal arms to moderately illegal people is one thing. Human sex trafficking is quite another.

Which brings him to his next course of action.

She seems to realize it herself. “ . . . are you going to take me to the police?”

He could. He should. Hell, he should shoot her and put her out of his misery. She did steal his shotgun. Temporarily deafened his sister. Left him with bruises all over his torso and the severe dressing down he got from Gerard when he and his sister had to explain that the thief escaped. He doesn't owe her any favors whatsoever.

He tells himself he's only reaching for a knife to free her hands because this whole Bratva experience has likely been horrific enough for her. He need not exacerbate it with sending her jail. It's not like he could have her charged with anything at this point. The shotgun she'd stolen wasn't legal. Neither was stealing from the Bratva illegal. “ Give me your hands.”

She immediately looks suspicious of him and the knife in his hand. “ Why?”

Rather than answer her, he brings her bound hands closer himself and slices through the binding. The way her skin looks under it is a testament to how long she's been like that. He's not sorry for ruining that desk with Matvei's face.

With one hand, he puts his knife away. The other unlocks the passenger's side. “ Scat cat.”

Apparently that hadn't been what she was expecting at all. She looks at him with equal parts shock and apprehension. As if she expects him to lock the doors back, proclaiming the whole thing to be in jest.

He has not the energy after a night like tonight. If he ignores her long enough, she'll get the message that she's free to go. And hopefully do just that, go away.

It doesn't take very long at all for her to realize she's being released. She's out of his car quite quickly. But she stops just short of running off. “ Which Argent are you?”

“ Why?”

“ Just—answer the fucking question!”

Whatever gets her out of his sight, and more importantly earshot faster. “ Chris.”

“ Chris,” she repeats. “ . . . Braeden.”


	4. Housecat

The fourth time he meets Braeden, the girl who would be gun-for-hire, is arguably the worst one. He isn't fond of being stolen from. He doesn't relish being poisoned. He certainly doesn't care to be equated with an owner of sex slaves. But all of those pale in comparison to the last encounter.

It's not necessarily an actual hunt. He's not after anything supernatural. He's after a human. A human serial killer; targeting hunters and their whole families. Someone with a vendetta against the hunter community; seeking to wipe out whole lines in a single night of violence.

Now Chris doesn't have any friends. Not in the paint-your-room-black, “my parents don't understand me”, the world is a vampire way. Just in the “hunters don't keep friends” way. Most of them don't live past their thirties. People like Gerard and Araya Calavera are considered anomalies. They  _also_  don't have any friends.

But if Chris did have a friend, a best friend, it would have been Adrien Davigion.

Adrien had been a hunter as long as Chris had. Both families' had roots in France. Chris' family dealt arms. Adrien's family dealt armor. From full suits of the stuff to to bulletproof vests. The first security system Chris ever worked on, he worked on with Adrien; for Adrien's then home in France.

He and Victoria had been there when a bad hunt lead to the death of Adrien's family. A colony of wendigo they cleared out. Except one of the bodies they burned wasn't a wendigo. Just a wendigo's leftovers. That one escaped, and followed Adrien home. It could have been any of them. It could have followed any one of them home. It picked Adrien, and he'd never been the same sense.

He bounced between France and America. Occasionally, crashing at Chris' house when he happened to be nearby. Chris did everything he could to help the man who would be his best friend.

So when Adrien calls on him to aid in this hunt for an assassin, of course he agrees.

“ I didn't think you'd come,” Adrien greets him with a clasped hand and embrace. “ This is a little outside your jurisdiction.”

Damn jurisdiction. “ An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us.”

“ Et nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” Adrien claps him on the back one more time before releasing him and nodding towards his safe house. “ Come on, we got a lot of ugly business to discuss. But before we get that far, I want to talk about something pretty.”

Here we go. Not even two steps inside the house. “  _No_.”

“ Oh, c'mon Christophe!” Adrien huffs while shutting and securing the door. “ You've had twenty good years with Victoria! Let someone else have a turn! I'm  _lonely_! I've been single for a long time now, you don't know how just how lonely I've been!”

“ You're right. I don't.” It doesn't take him long to find where Adrien has his fridge. He isn't surprised to see it full of beer either. “ And I'm very happy keeping it that way.”

Adrien's right behind him, grabbing one for himself. “ What if I seduce her and she runs off with me?”

“ She knows you, she'll be back.” As if she would ever downgrade. Victoria has better taste than that.

Chris doesn't care for the way the other hunter's face lights up so suddenly. “ Hey, what about your sister?”

“ What  _about_  her?”

Adrien plows on as if he completely missed the social cue entirely. Or maybe he just willfully ignored it. “ She's cute, she's blonde, she's a hunter, she's—”

“ —off limits.”  _That_ cue is a little more clear.

“ Don't be so damned greedy, Argent,” Adrien sulks while throwing his bottle cap at him. “ You can't keep  _all_  the beautiful women to yourself. How am I supposed to find one?”

Chris does at least give the impression of considering the question seriously. “ Truthfully? Colette was one in a million; God rest her soul. You won't find another woman to put up with you like she did. You're going to have to  _build_  one.”

Adrien's obnoxious false laughter was interrupted by the back door jiggling, then coming open. Immediately, Chris draws his gun and aims at the head of the intruder.

Or what he thinks is an intruder.

In actuality, it's just a cat.

A five foot some odd, brunette, curly-haired, troublemaking  _cat_. “  _You_.”

Braeden. That's Braeden that opened the locked door. Braeden who nearly gave him a heart attack. Braeden who he nearly shot. Braeden who stands there with her hands up, rather surprised herself.

“ Hi Chris.”

Adrien, helpful as ever, gestures to her. “ I take it you know each other?”

Chris is not thrilled. “ What are you doing here, Braeden?”

“ He hired me to help him find this hunter serial killer motherfucker.”

Now his annoyance turns to his would-be friend. “ You know better than that, Adrien.”

“ Hey, look,” Adrien shrugs innocently, “ I figured six eyes were better than four?”

“ She's  _not_  a hunter, Adrien. This isn't her business.”

“ For six million dollars, I say it is.”

Six  _millio_ —

That's fucking  _ridiculous_. Even for something like this. Adrien might want this guy bad, but six  _million_  dollars? There's no way Braeden would turn it down. Nobody would.

The gun goes back into the waistband of his jeans. He'll deal with Adrien in a minute. Right now, his priority is Braeden. “ You still don't belong here. I can't stop you from doing this though. So you can stay, you can help us find him, and then you can—”

“ I know, I  _know_ , Argent.  _Scat cat_.”  

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“ You know, you had me worried when you pulled a gun on this one the first time she walked in, Christophe.”

Stupid.

“ I mean, I was afraid you'd shoot her before I'd get to do it.”

Stupid. Stupid.  _Stupid_.

“ You don't know how long and how much work has gone into this. I couldn't afford to have you mess everything up now. Luckily, it all works out in my favor. Hell, if she didn't trust you so much, this might have been a lot harder! I owe you one, man!”

**Fucking**  stupid.

Not only had he mindlessly walked right into a trap, he sent Braeden into it first.

He can tell they're still in the abandoned house she'd led them to. He can tell they're in the basement of it. It smells strongly of wood rot and mold. He can see the stairs they must have been carried down.

That's all he can tell as far as the environment goes. As far as himself and Braeden, he can tell from the movement against his bound hands that she's awake. Probably has been awake since she got knocked out first. He knows enough that she's behind him. In a chair just like he is. Bound just like he is. Their hands are tied on their own, then tied together.

He knows that has nothing to do with Braeden. That's all for his benefit. She's tied behind him to keep him from throwing his chair back to break it. Their hands are bound together so he can't get loose of his bindings without freeing her also. There's no way for him to move and twist that wouldn't cause her pain. And there's just no point in looking for his weapons. He already knows they're gone. Every single one of them. Adrien knows exactly how he'd get out of something like this, and planned ahead to prevent it.

But  _why_?

He doesn't ask. Doesn't have to. Adrien's a talker. Has been a talker as long as Chris has known him. It's impossible for him to keep his mouth shut.

“ It's too bad, you know, that you never did hook me up with Victoria. I'm gonna miss her, she's really pretty. Great hunter wife. Almost as good as Colette was. That woman was a Godsend, Christophe. A  _Godsend_. And  **you**  let her  **die**.”

What. . . ?

“ I was nowhere near your house when that wendigo attacked you, Adrien. You  _know_ that _._ ”

Evidently, that wasn't what the other hunter wanted to hear. Adrien's in his face, yelling right up against his ear, forehead to forehead. “ DON'T TELL ME WHAT I  _KNOW_! I  **KNOW**  YOU WEREN'T THERE! I  **KNOW**  YOU LET THAT HAPPEN! YOU LET MY FAMILY DIE!  **ALL OF YOU**!”

Where the hell is this coming from?

His family has been deceased for upwards of four years.

“ Adrien. . . listen to me. . . None of us knew that we missed one. You know if we thought for a second any of them escaped, we would have hunted that one down too. What happened to your family is the worst thing that can happen to anyone. But it could have been anyone. It could have been any of us; even me.”

“ Oh nooooo!” Adrien backs off, moves away from him to go around behind him. Chris doesn't like that. He can't see Adrien anymore. Not even if he turns his head. Braeden's directly behind him. He doesn't want Adrien close to her while he's acting so irrationally. “ Not  _you_ , Christophe. Never  _you_  Christophe. Not the  _illustrious Argents_! Nothing happens to your family! It just happens  _around_  your family! You get the prettiest wife! You get the biggest house! You have the cutest daughter!”

He can't tell what's going on behind him. He feels the movement of Braeden's chair, her body in it. He can feel it when her head moves sharply to one side, then suddenly to the other. What is he doing to her? “ Adrien. . .”

“  _SHUT_ _ **UP**_!” That time Chris definitely hears the sound of a fist meeting flesh. It isn't his flesh that's hit. “ I find my own little piece of heaven, my own beautiful wife, my own nice house, my own cute daughter and none of you fuckers could  _stand_  it, could you?! You  _let_  that wendigo go! You  _led_  it to my house and you  _let_  it kill my family! How could you—How  **could**  you stand there at my wife's funeral with a straight fucking face when you're the one that killed her?!”

At first, Chris considered the possibility that Adrien has been possessed somehow. He goes in and out of depression. Things like that leave you open. But a demon would be more focused on him, would attack his own family, or some perceived weakness he thinks Chris has. Not some slight that Adrien perceives on himself. If this was about hunters, if this were about Chris personally, there's no reason to have Braeden here at all. There's no reason to strike her at all. “  _Adrien_!”

“ I'm almost done though,” the man who would be his best friend continues as if he heard nothing. “ I got almost everybody on the list. Everybody who was there. Just you and two others, and then we'll be square.”

Jésus-Christ.

He couldn't possibly. . . “ How—There's no way you'd be able to pull something like that off. The whole hunter community would come down on you.”

“ Ah, ah, ah. They'd come down on the  _killer_. They'd be looking for an outside threat. Not an inside one. And, that, mon cher ami, is what this little darling is for.”

Chris' inside go cold.

“ Unfortunately, ma petite chérie,” Chris feels movement again. Adrien—he knows it's Adrien now—is moving Braeden's head. “ They will only find your body. And have to go without their vengeance. Just like I had to for three whole years. ”

This assassin, this serial killer they've been on the hunt for has been nothing but a fucking rouse. More than a trap, entrapment. Six million dollars to draw Braeden in. To send her out on the trail he made. Bring her to this house, blame the murders on her. Leave her with his body to further cement Adrien's lie.

It's been him, this whole time.

It's all at once devastating, terrifying, sickening and infuriating.

The man who would be his best friend is a murderer.

Women, children, men, whole family lines he's wiped out.

Chasing mad vengeance he doesn't deserve.

Adrien isn't the first hunter to lose it. He certainly won't be the last. But he's first one Chris has ever been so close to. The first one to do this kind of widespread damage. Everything in him threatens to upend itself.   


And then he hears the sound of a fist hitting flesh again, and everything comes back in crystal clear focus.

He can't fall apart now.

His family's in danger.

He's in danger.

More importantly, Braeden is in danger right now.

Adrien is hitting her. Beating her nearly right in front of him.

“ Adrien! Stop it! Leave her alone!”

“ Really, Christophe? Really?” Adrien swings into his line of sight. “ Victoria isn't enough? Allison isn't enough? You have to have  _this_  pretty girl too? There you go again, being so damn selfish.” Then he's gone again. Back on Braeden's side. Right where Chris doesn't want him to be. “ Does that sound fair to you, ma petite chér—!”

That would be the sound of two heads cracking together in what Chris assumes was a headbutt. “  _Fuck you_!”

It's not the time for such emotions, but Chris would be lying if he said he wasn't pretty proud of her for that response. “ Good girl.”

Adrien doesn't feel the same way. The beating she takes is worse than what she was taking. Their chairs are jerking with the hits Adrien is landing on her. She's trying to pull her hands free as much as he is. They're only getting in each others' way. Because they're bound, he can't throw his chair in any direction, break it and beat Adrien unconscious with the pieces. He can't name a time he's ever been so angry. If he were a were-creature of any kind, he would have fully shifted and torn the man's throat out by now. He can't  _stand_  a man putting his hands on a woman; and Adrien knows that. Hell, he used to be the same way.

But he's not just doing it to get to Chris. For anyone, any other hunter, to believe Braeden was capable of killing any sort of hunter, let alone of his caliber, she'd have to take a serious beating. The kind of beating Adrien's giving her right now, while she's tied up and defenseless. He isn't pulling his punches. There's blood droplets on the floor and Chris thinks he might just break his chair all on his own. “  _Putain_! Don't touch her anymore!”

“ I can't believe you're throwing such a fit over a  _mercenary_  of all things, Christophe. You think she'd be this concerned if this was you getting beat up? Hell no! All she cares about is money, don't you sweetheart?”  


Despite the sound of a slap following it, Chris is again proud at it being prefaced by spitting.

“ No manners, these American girls. I don't know how you stay here so long, Christophe.”

“ Jesus, you talk too goddamn much,” Braeden's voice sounds slurred. There's another spitting noise and a red stain on the floor grows brighter. “ C'n't you jus' kill me now so I 'on't have t'hear anymore o'this shit?”

The sudden jerk back there scares the hell out of him. “ Adrien—!”

“ You have the prettiest little mouth, but it says the  _ugliest_  things.” Chris can feel Braeden's head pressing back against his. She's leaning away from something. He doesn't want to think it's a knife. “ I can fix that for you, you know. What do you think Christophe? I don't think anyone will notice if her tongue is gone.”

He refuses to play _that_  game. Adrien plans to come back to his side and work him over at some point; Chris is sure. His body will have to look like he took enough damage to succumb to his injuries if anyone were to believe Braeden killed him. He'd rather that happen sooner than later. “ Why don't you pick on someone your own size, Davigion? Instead of a woman that can't defend herself.”

“ Fuck you I c'n't defend myself!”

Oh God, now is definitely not the time. He can't silence her before Adrien's got his attention on her again.

“ I might break your jaw first, I think.” Chris imagines Adrien digging his fingers into Braeden's jaw as he speaks. “ It ruins the overall beauty. I can appreciate you so much more if you are silent.”

Her altered speech confirms it for him. “ Before you do 'at, I hav' a question.”

“ What's that?”

“ What're you doin' writhin' on th' floor like that?”

Her question worries Chris exponentially. If she's got bad enough head trauma to be delusional, he has to get her out of here but fast.

“ What the hell is that supposed t—Gahhh!”

He needn't have worried.

“ Nevermind. I see som'body kneed you in the groin. Looks like it hurts. . .” Braeden was completely coherent. Not just to fight back against Adrien, but to push something cold and sharp and metallic into his hands. A blade—a kni— _Adrien's_  knife. The very knife he'd been threatening her with. She'd gotten it from him somehow. And now she's passing it to him. “ You should cut yo'rself loose. I 'on't think this is gonna work out f'r you.”

She's addressing Adrien, but Chris knows she's speaking to him.   


Adrien recovers, and Chris can't see it, but he can feel it and hear it. He knows Adrien is viciously attacking her so she can't hurt him again. He either doesn't notice or doesn't care that his knife is missing. That last attack, being outsmarted by someone like Braeden ate through the shred of restraint he had left.

The soldier in him pushes for his own bonds to be cut first so he can defend Braeden. He can't help her get away if he's still stuck and Adrien's after her. But the man in him, husband, father, big brother demands he cut Braeden loose first. Let her run, and he'll do whatever he must to ensure her escape.

Then there's this ugly part of him, the part that's growing and building and tinting the edges of his vision red that calls for Adrien's destruction.

“ No 'onder France c'n't win any g'damn wars,” Braeden wheezes.  _Wheezes_. “ Hit like a bitch. . .”

When Adrien strikes her twice more, the mercenary jerks herself forward. The ropes he was sawing through, the ones that bind their hands together, come loose. Braeden is still bound at the wrists, but she goes after Adrien anyway.

Chris can hear her, hear the noise Adrien makes when she drives her shoulder into his abdomen. Hear the sound of Adrien's body hitting the ground when she uses the chair she's still tied to to knock his legs out from under him. He also hears the wood breaking when Adrien knocks her down in kind. He hears her labored breathing as she lays where she fell. He hears Adrien's heavy footsteps as he sees her at the end of his tunnel vision and nothing else. He hears the man taunt her, tell her what he intends to do to her, to Chris, to Chris' family, his wife, his child.

“ Where do you think you will go, eh? Say I let you go. Say you make it out of here. The other hunters, they'll still blame you for what will happen to Christophe and his family. And it will be very sad, very sad. A long, happy marriage, gone. A beautiful little girl, gone. All because of some greedy mercenary. They will come down on you like fire from Heaven. There will be nowhere you can run, ma petite chérie. This is really the best place for you, eh? At least I will take care of you. I'll even forgive your transgressions earlier and let you die when you beg me the first time.”

Chris can vaguely see the downed young woman if he turns his head. She's managed to get her hands in front of herself, but she's breathing hard. Too hard. Too shallow. The wheezing is getting worse. Whatever adrenaline she was running on before has abandoned her now.

Braeden intended for him to free himself and escape while she kept Adrien's attention. Goaded him and taunted him until he all he could see was her and his desire for vengeance.

Chris has other ideas.

The ropes finally give way, or maybe he just breaks loose on his own. He means to shout something at Adrien to get his attention off Braeden and onto himself. He intends to tell her to run away and face down the man who would have been his best friend himself. He may have even tried to save the man one more time.

None of that makes it out.

Rage is in his limbs, propelling towards the other hunter. They collide hard and it's all red from there.

“ MOTHER **FUCKER**!  _I'LL **KILL**  YOU_!”

He doesn't know how many times he hits Adrien. Doesn't have any recollection of Adrien landing any hits on him. There's hazy, red-tinged visions of his fists coming in contact with the other hunter's face. Someone yelling, swearing, ordering Adrien to stand up every time he falls. Until he's finally holding the man up himself, just to beat on him some more. His boxing form must be shit. He's just swinging, hard and fast and relentless; aiming for the head and the body. There's blood on his clothes, on the wall and the floor that isn't his blood. But it's not enough. He doesn't just want Adrien bloodied, or falling over. He wants the man  _destroyed_.

Not even when Adrien crumples over him, wheezing against his shoulder, head lolled forward, eyes glassy, mouth painted red, red, red, can he stop himself from pummeling the man. He's supposed to be in control of himself. He's supposed to compartmentalize. He's supposed to do just enough to stop Adrien, make sure Braeden's okay, then have the other hunter put away somewhere he can't hurt others. But he simply lacks the capacity to do so. He's running on rage and rage alone. He might not have ever been so angry in his entire life. All because of Adrien. His unhinged vendetta against other hunters who take the same risks he does. Live the same life. Face the same losses. What happened to his own family was a tragedy. What he's done to others', what he intended to do to Chris' is simply inhuman. He wouldn't even face up to what he'd done like a man after the fact. Adrien saw fit to involve an non-hunter, to frame Braeden for his own actions. To sacrifice her on the alter of his madness.

Thinking of the wheezing mercenary floods concern where fire and fury once inhabited. Where he was content to beat Adrien into a pile of blood and meat, he only drives his fist into the other hunter's body one more time. Then uppercuts him to get him the fuck away.

“ Chris. . . Chris'ophe. . .” Adrien is beyond beaten. He can't wheeze. He can't  _breathe_. He's gurgling. He's drowning. He's dying. Succumbing to his injuries. Chris has killed him. Killed the man who would have been his best frien—No. Killed the man that threatened his family, that slaughtered others and aimed to slaughter more. The one who would have been his best friend died with his wife and child a long time ago. He doesn't claim to know the man choking on red foam now.

Now that he can see again, he can't find Braeden. It's dark and dank and his head hurts and his hands hurt and he's mildly light-headed from exerting himself so much. But he has to find her. She couldn't have gotten far.

And in fact, she didn't. Somehow, the hardy mercenary drug herself up the stairs, out of the basement, and collapsed against the hallway wall. Like she was trying to use it to stand up and ran out of steam.

For a moment, Chris fears he was too late. It's quiet. She's still. But then he can hear her breathing. Wheezing. Gasping. She hasn't improved. Driving herself up the stairs only made it worse. She can't be far from respiratory arrest at this rate.

When he gathers her from the wall in his burning, aching arms, she doesn't protest. No swearing, no flinching, no wincing, no cries of pain. Nothing.  


There once was a time when all he wanted out of Braeden was silence.

Now that he has her silence, all he wants is to hear her curse him again.

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" You can open your eyes now. I'm sure lying in that position for so long isn't comfortable.”

Brown eyes open and glare at him openly. That's better than her being comatose at least.

“ What the hell are you doing here, Argent?”

“ Waiting for you to wake up,” he doesn't bother to raise his head from his reading the rather thick results of her thorough examination. This nineteen, twenty-some odd young woman has been through a great deal, in such a short amount of time. Scars, GSWs, fractures that didn't heal properly (which honestly needed to be rebroken and reset; how she continues to be so active with all the damage to her body, is beyond him), low iron count (potentially anemic, more blood work necessary), signs of malnutrition, underweight for her height and age. Most of the trauma two, maybe three years old at most. To say nothing of the damage Adrien did beating on her for the hours they were held. As he turned over a few more pages, Chris let out a low whistle. “ You have been through some things, haven't you?”

That seems to get her attention. And though he knows she can't see exactly what he has, she has to have some idea. Instead of verbally assaulting him yet again, she clams up and hunkers down in the bed like she expects him to do something to her.

“ Relax,” the medical file closes in his lap and he does look up at her this time. “ If I wanted to hurt you somehow, it would have been easier to do it while you were out.”

The logic makes sense to her. She does relax somewhat, though she's still eyeing him warily. “ How long was I out? Why'd you bring me here? Hunters don't like hired guns.”

“ You've been in and out for three days. And no, we don't.” He'll concede that point. But he'll also make another. “ But you happen to be really bad at it, so I'm making an exception.”

She doesn't take kindly to that. The way she puffs up is rather adorable. “ Who the fuck you calling 'bad at it', Argent? I was good enough to steal from you! I was good enough to steal from the Russian Bratva! Fuck you, I'm no good! I'm a  _great_  mercenary! I only care about money and  _me_!”

“ Is that so?”

“ Yes that's fucking so!”

“ Then why did you slip me Adrien's knife?”

That, she has no answer for. No answer, no violent reaction. Just stunned into silence. She can't think of some lie to patch over that with. She  _did_  have the opportunity to escape herself. She had no loyalty to Adrien or himself, but she stayed. Not only did she stay. She passed him the knife to free himself first. Urged him to run while she went after the man who'd beaten on her all night. No respectable mercenary is so self-sacrificing. Damn near no human is so self-sacrificing.

“ He was going to  _kill you_ , Braeden.” Neither one of them can ignore the magnitude of what almost happened.

All at once, Braeden deflates, drops her gaze to the blue hospital sheets in her lap. Like the weight of reality just fell on her shoulders. “ I know he was.”

“ Then  _why_?” The one thing he's had on his mind since she was stabilized and moved out of ICU. “ Why were you so willing to die for me?”

Just when he thinks he won't receive an answer, and truthfully, he doesn't actually expect one, Braeden shifts with an audible noise of pain. Faces the opposite wall, the ceiling, any direction that isn't directly looking at him.

“ When I stole my shotgun from you, you were the only one there that didn't want to hurt me. You could have left me with the Russians that one time, and you didn't. You could have taken me to the police. But you cut me loose. You let me go. Down in the basement, with Adrien, you kept trying to make him stop. You didn't have to do any of those things, and you did. No one has ever done anything like that before. Not for me. Not for free.” Again, she has to shift. She's laying on the side that used to have the chest tube in it. “ I didn't mean anything to him. But you, Adrien  _wanted_  to kill you. And your family and other families and other people that don't deserve it. I knew he might kill me anyway. I  _knew_  that. But I also knew I couldn't let him kill you. I couldn't just let you die. He was gonna beat on me anyway, I figured, if there was a way to save you, then I was going to do it.”

It is equal parts endearing and  _terrifying_  that essentially being a decent person towards her is what grants him such loyalty.

Mercenaries, hired guns, soldiers of fortune, guns-for-hire are supposed to value the almighty dollar over everything. Their sense, their safety, their loyalty, their lives, others' lives. That's the part Braeden happens to be pretty bad at. She's no hunter. She's not holding herself to the hunter code. She doesn't hold herself to any mercenary code either. But there's  _some_  code she's living by. Some code she nearly died by.

Maybe it's time he make more than an exception for this one.  

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**Epilogue**

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Braeden was supposed to stay in the hospital for two weeks. She escapes two days after waking up.

Chris does make an effort to look for her. Always finding out where she's been, but not where she's going.

His contacts know to alert him should she pass through any of their territories. Every man in his unit knows not to fire upon her should they find her. Don't engage her at all, just follow and pass him the information.

All that work, all that manpower, and she shows up on his couch two days after the fact.

Literally, on his couch.

Like she fucking belongs there.

Victoria summons him from amending the beastiary in his study, saying he has a client waiting. This in and of itself is odd. He has no meetings scheduled for today. He doesn't forget those kinds of things. He doesn't forget anything.

Yet, his wife leads him to the living room. Thirty minutes ago, he was taking a nap in there. In almost the exact same placement as he had been, there is Braeden. Still bandaged. A little worse for wear. But there she is. Sound asleep on his couch. Next to her hand hanging off the couch is a black duffle bag. Half zipped. Containing, if he had to guess, no less than ten thousand dollars.

There's also an empty plate.

“ Did you already eat the lunch I put out for you?” His wife questions.

The plate that had a tuna salad sandwich cut in half on it. The kind that's heavy on the mayo. Not because he's such a big fan of the stuff; he could take it or leave it. But Kate detests mayo. And the more he can do to protect his food from his freeloading sister, the better.

“ I did not.”  But he has a pretty good idea where that lunch went.  “ Do you remember that cat that got into our warehouse about a year ago?”


End file.
